Two months was a long time. In Zantaric, it could be a lifetime.
Calen felt like it had been a lifetime. He couldn't remember ever being so tired. He'd already been back in the city a week, but still he felt like he was on the road, constantly exhausted an always alert for danger.
It turned out that half-demon hadn't just been boasting. Calen had managed to quell the bandit threat, but he'd had to kill their ringleader to do it. And the little shit had cursed him, literally with his dying breath- who actually did stuff like that.
He had absolutely no idea how the curse would manifest, but he could feel it buzzing just against the surface of his skin, occasionally interacting with his own magic in sharp pops or sudden little zips of electricity up his arms.
He needed a drink.
Grumbling to himself, Calen left the inn where he'd been more or less hiding for the last few days, hunching his shoulders as he headed out into an overcast dusk. He didn't notice a piece of shadow detach itself from the alley he passed and start to follow him.